


Conventionality

by ThisAintBC



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Gratuitous References To Lots Of Random Stuff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisAintBC/pseuds/ThisAintBC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some movies are more than just moving pictures on a screen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conventionality

**Author's Note:**

> ...that moment when you realize that you primarily look for healthy recipes in order to come up with things Stiles could plausibly feed his dad. Or, how a story that was meant to be about fluff and musicals evolved into something more.
> 
> Baby's second TW--and first AO3--fic! I'm so proud of myself right now, you don't even know, not least for finally getting this up. Thank you, thank you, thank you, to my wonderful beta aevenien, who is slowly but surely attempting to get me to overcome my issues with using pronouns where I could just as easily use a character's name (and who also got me my invite). She has the patience of a saint and the temperament of an angel.  
> Enjoy!

Stiles would like to make it very clear that there is no girl in this situation.

He and Derek are both men—that’s kind of what they like about each other—both video-game-playing, work-out-doing, feelings-illiterate, men. They eat too much pizza and can’t make it past the first thirty minutes of _Titanic_. They have no deep, burning, passion for shopping, or shoes, or Stephanie Meyer.

Lydia would hit him at this point, for his gender stereotypes at least as much for implying she actually likes _Twilight_. He’s pretty sure that if she ever met Stephanie Meyer, she would coo and fawn and invite her out to dinner where she would slip some poison in her wine and act heartbroken and frantic when the paramedics declared her dead on the scene. And get off scotfree, happy in the knowledge that she had saved mankind.

Whatever. Gender schmender. His point is, they are both guys, dudes, of the male persuasion.

But if there was a girl…well, despite Derek occasionally doing his best impression of PMS, Stiles is pretty sure it would be him.

Which is why, when he goes to his dad for advice, it’s a rather uncomfortable discussion.

“Dad?” He mouthed around a forkful of green beans. “Do you know…How did Mom know? You know, when you were dating? How’d she know that you were the one?”

His dad put his fork down and looked at Stiles, concerned. “Now, Stiles, just because you’re dating another guy doesn’t mean that one of you has to be the ‘girl’-“

Stiles waved his hands impatiently, cutting the Sheriff off. “No, no, no. I know. Wait. How did you know that I’m dating a guy? Oh God, you don’t know who it is, do you? Oh my God. Dad. Stalking is so not cool. And stop trying to distract me; don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing! Answer the question! Come on, Dad, this is important!”

His dad studied him, apparently attempting to make sure that he was telling the truth. Stiles squirmed.

“It’s called surveillance when you’re the Sheriff.” He said slowly.

Stiles dropped his head into his hands, giving up on keeping his father focused on the subject at hand.

“But no, I haven’t. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you might be interested in guys, Stiles. How many times have I caught you at that club, now?” Great. Now his dad was laughing at him.

-

It had been his mom’s, her favorite in fact. The first time he went down to the basement to look for the battered old VHS tape he had ended up sitting on the stairs, unable to go any further. He thought about laughter ringing through the house and kids chasing each other through the kitchen and into the living room where the movie was like as not playing. He thought about the way she insisted on making angel food cake every Christmas even though she always burned it horribly and the way she curled into his dad at the breakfast table before her coffee sank in, identical to the way she gathered them in to her when they all crowded on their couch to watch a movie. He thought about everything and nothing, and it must have been an hour before he emerged from his fugue enough to go upstairs and bury his emotions in Skyrim.

He didn’t try again for a week—this time when Scott was over, though he didn’t tell Scott why he was going downstairs. He was hoping that Scott’s presence would help him deal enough to get the tape and get out.

It didn’t work. He blearily, distantly, watched Scott lead his shivering form up the stairs and onto the couch. The poor kid hovered, uncertain, talking about this and that he could do to help. Eventually he nodded to himself and disappeared off to the kitchen, only to march back in armed with a steaming cup full of chicken bouillon, which brought Stiles out of his head from the pure ridiculousness of it.

(The thing is, he had never really dealt with his mother’s death. Sometimes he thinks the best reason he and Derek are good for each other is because they force each other to deal with their issues and give each other someone who can understand, at least a little, when they do get around to dealing.

And then he looks at the pack and realizes that the best reason he and Derek are good for each other is because they make a really good team, much better than he would have ever made with Lydia. And that’s...something. Something which he refuses to even think about, which fills his belly with a distracting sort of warmth.)

Finally, he just sent Scott down for it. Three shouting matches and half a dozen text messages later, he had managed to guide his directionally-challenged best friend to the old VHS tapes stored away carefully in the basement and was listening to him clomp his way upstairs. Scott dropped the tape on the table, shaking himself all over to get rid of the dust that clung to his clothes and hair and carefully avoiding Stiles’ gaze.

When he saw it, Stiles almost laughed. After all that trouble, here it was--covered in what was clearly some sort of years-old alcohol and obviously beyond repair. He shouldn’t have been surprised--such a vivid memory of his mother, sitting right in their living room--how could his dad have known that Stiles would want it one day? At the time, Stiles was too devastated to even look at her picture, much less such an intrinsic part of the lively and often chaotic experience that had been his mom. But his dad...his dad had obviously treasured the reminder, held it close to his heart on those nights that had been hardest to get through. He had also clearly valued it more for the memories associated with it than its actual use, but that was the way they treated everything of hers, in those early days.

Which wasn’t particularly healthy, but they were also both living relatively healthy emotional lives _now_ , so they must have done something right.

(Stiles never claimed to have issues on par with Derek’s. He just said that they both _have_ issues, which: truth. And honestly, Stiles’ main advantage is that, while neither of them have ever truly dealt with the deaths of their loved ones, he’s managed to move on.)

So. The clear solution—presented by Scott, in fact—was to order it from Netflix. He went online, typed it in, clicked on the ominous red button, and proceeded to slowly lose his mind. He switched from frantically preparing to sitting and _humming_ with anxiety to distracting himself with anything and everything he could dig up on the internet. It was nerve-wracking, and _he couldn’t seem to stop_.

It took him almost a week to realize that the last DVD was still at their house, during which time he almost tore his hair out. Derek kept shooting him bemused looks, Scott was still trying to figure out what he was up to, and his dad kept asking when he was going to get to meet “this guy” and whether he should bring a gun.

Stiles almost wished one of the crazy-distant-relatives would come back/go insane again so everyone would be distracted, which says things about his life that he really doesn’t want to think about. And also says something about distant relatives.

But then there it was, sitting innocently in the mailbox, fulfilling the company’s promises of three day shipping and flashy red wrapping. It took everything in him not to go tearing down the driveway and to Derek’s right then and there; but no, he was going to do this right. Plan it carefully. He was not going to let his emotions get the better of him, not on this.

The first step was a call to Lydia, who had some good advice as well as some snarky innuendo. She also promised to make sure his dad was out of the house, though he made it very clear that he didn’t want to know how she was going to manage that one--the less you know and all that.

Next, he bought ingredients for homemade pizza (Pillsbury, pasta sauce, cheese, and pepperoni, and a recipe that various websites assured him was foolproof) and molasses walnut cookies (his Russian tea cakes were a big hit, so Stiles is now operating under the assumption that Derek likes walnuts in his cookies, and Derek has yet to object), and then he vacuumed the living room, even under the couch’s seat cushions, with an actual vacuum instead of just halfheartedly swiping at the carpet with the shop vac. He washed his clothes, took his third shower of the day, studiously avoided any and all things fragrance-bearing. Everything was perfect--the floor was clean, the house smelled like cookies, the pizza was in the oven, his red hoodie was freshly laundered, and he had even considered lighting candles before deciding that was going too far.

-

Derek could tell something was up before he even walked in the door. The air was tinged with the soft smoky flavor and floral notes he associated with scented candles, hovering around the edges of deep golden wafts of freshly baked cookies. The house was clean, and underneath all the other sounds he had come to identify as intrinsic to the Stilinski household was the faint buzz of the oven.

It was a sign of how much his life had changed that his initial reaction was bemusement rather than wariness. If it had been a year ago, his immediate conclusion would have been that is was a trap and he would’ve been out the door and down the street before he even considered that there could plausibly be other explanations. Instead, he wandered through the door and into the kitchen, and made himself at home against the counter, listening to Stiles frantically banging around upstairs.

“ _They see your ev-er-y move!_ ” Warbled his phone. He glanced down at the screen, even though he suspected he already knew what it would say, just to make that song shut up. He had to give it to Stiles, though; for the message he was trying to convey, he had yet to go the obvious route and program his phone to serenade him with the reggae-esque tones of the Police.

_Sourwolf. We’ve talked about this-you had better not be lurking in my kitchen!_

He smirked to himself and stayed where he was, leather jacket rubbing against the edge of the counter, listening to the melodious sound of feet thunking down the stairs.

The boy slid into the kitchen on gray socks, wide-eyed and panting.

“Derek!” He pouted, reaching out and cuffing him on the arm. “No more lurking, we said! Respectability, so no one will accuse you of murder just for walking down the street, we said! Going to the grocery store like a normal person and not like someone about to go to war with the produce section, for the love of God.”

“You said,” he chuffed, capturing the offending hand in his own. Stiles immediately tugged on it, more out of habit than any real desire to free himself, and Derek kept his grip firm, using it to reel in his errant, rambunctious, boyfriend. He couldn’t resist the pout offered up to him or the teasing glint in his eyes, and leaned in to peck him on the lips. Stiles sighed happily and returned the gesture before tucking his free arm around Derek’s waist and snuggling into his chest. The alpha (setting aside that mantle in these stolen snippets of time with Stiles, but never fully releasing it, not really) let the babble wash over him, keeping a section of his attention focused on the words but mostly happy for the rare moment of tranquil togetherness, comfortably wrapped in each other’s presence.

But all good things must come to an end, especially when they involve Stiles being still, and soon enough he was pushing on Derek’s arms.

“Come on, Derek, pizza!” With a deft twist, he extracted himself and bounded off to the oven, humming to himself. The edges of the crust were dangerously brown by this point, but the smell of tomato and toasted cheese was mouth-watering nonetheless. The kitchen was an absolute disaster, flour and tomato sauce draped across the counters in irregular patterns, a sink overflowing with dirty dishes, racks of cookies stacked haphazardly in one corner, and Stiles had to nudge a pot filled with cloudy water and rebellious macaroni clinging to its sides off the stove top to make space for the pizza. It was entropy at its finest, uncomfortable and cramped.

(It felt like home, chaotic jumble and all.)

Finding paper plates was an adventure in and of itself, and then they had to wash the dishes in the sink at Derek’s insistence—Stiles whined that it defeated the purpose of digging out the paper plates in the first place, but the upward tilt to his lips and amusement in his eyes that no amount of whining could disguise told him that he didn’t mind. But they eventually got themselves settled on the couch, slightly burnt pizza and all, comfortable in the knowledge that Stiles’ father was on shift for several more hours.

“Now,” said Stiles, shaking his finger preemptively in Derek’s face as he held the DVD hostage. “We’re going to watch this movie, and you are not going to complain, because it’s awesome and important. No rolling your eyes, no laughing, none of that. Got it?”

He nodded, keeping his mouth from twitching upwards only through long years of habit.

“Good.” He huffed, and threw himself forward at the DVD player, babbling about how Derek had better appreciate this movie. Crouched child-like on the floor, he gazed up at the screen with pleading eyes until the main menu popped up. The “play” button had been punched before he even thought to reach for the remote, and he hurled himself backwards and under Derek’s arm.

“ _Grease is the word_ ,” sang the TV, and despite his promise, Derek almost groaned.

-

Derek could feel the rib cage against his heave and tense as John Travolta hopped off the car and set his followers to work. Stiles reached out for the remote and paused the movie, leaving poor Danny, immeasurably cool and immeasurably insecure, hovering on the screen.

“Now.” He said, smiling and bouncing to his feet as if everything were right in the world. He always tried to cover up his nervousness, even though one sniff of a werewolf’s nose and twitch of his ears reveals everything there is to know about Stiles’ self-confidence. “Now. I - um.” He twisted his mouth and seemed to pause for thought--perhaps, Derek thought wryly, for the first time in his life. “You. Do the dance with me?”

Derek stared, incredulous.

“We’ll go back, watch it again, and we’ll dance! It’ll be fun! Come on, Derek, please.” Whipping around before he could respond to or even process the request, he skipped back to the beginning of the scene. As the greasers once again began to discuss the car, he turned back toward the couch.

“Come on, c’mon c’mon c’mon.” He pleaded, pouting and reaching for Derek’s hands. The tugging was playful but by no means gentle, obviously meant to pull him to his feet, and his grip was tighter, a little more frantic, than the other times he had used this method to try to convince his boyfriend to do something. “It’ll be fun! You have to do it. Every time you watch Grease, you have to do the dance. Everybody knows that. Come on!”

With the hint of a smile, he allowed himself to pulled to his feet. He had no idea why this mattered so much to Stiles, but it was obviously important, so he half-heartedly pointed in a T-shape along with the dancers, and when time came, he even moved his accusatory pointer finger in the same sweeping gesture as Travolta.

After a few minutes, he settled back onto the couch, refusing to participate in the hip-shimmying going on next to him. Stiles seemed content enough, smiling and singing along happily, throwing him affectionate glances every now and again. When the song finished, he collapsed next to him, panting happily and rewarding him with a kiss.

“Now watch the movie.” He was commanded; and, bemused, he did so. Stiles’ motivations for activities such as this--and such as the time he demanded, via Scott, to be taken to a carnival and won a stuffed animal, or any of his many and varied “team building exercises”--were often a mystery to him, but he supposed that was par for the course when dealing with a high schooler of above average intelligence.

“So, hey, Derek,” He said a few minutes later, voice filled with glee and triumph. “You wanna come to dinner tonight?”

Derek tuned out the movie and began plotting his escape routes for when the Sheriff tried to kill him. There was no way he was saying no to that tone.

-

Sheriff Stilinski was stunned and somewhat unamused to find a car already in his spot in the driveway when he got home that night. It was a nice car, sleek and black and exactly the sort of thing his deputies tended to pull over, but that didn’t make him anymore appreciative of having to park in the street.

He threw open his door wearily, exhausted from the antics of the Martin girl—which he knew had something to do with his son, plausible deniability be damned—and eyed his front door, knowing his son would come flying out soon enough and fully intending to give him an earful. The door wobbled forward hesitantly, and sure enough, out he came, practically dancing.

The look of absolute joy on his face, the glint in his eyes, the way his body vibrated with quiet wonder—well, if that hadn’t been enough to ruin his frustrated intentions, then the way Stiles threw himself into a full-body hug and whispered “He did it! He - he cares!” in his ear would have killed them outright. His son, despite all outward appearances, had been incredibly hurt over the years by a series of rejections, not just the romantic rebuffals of Lydia Martin but by cold and even scornful responses to his friendly overtures and awkward nature. To see him happy like this, accepted even in the strangest of quirks by someone who he was coming to feel about, was everything the Sheriff had ever wanted for him, and he smiled down at his son’s bouncing knees and returned the hug.

In one of those ironic bits of timing that everyone swears only happens in the movies, he looked up just in time to see none other than Derek Hale walking out of his house to lean into the frame of his front door. His mind swirled with the eddies and currents of various outrages—a criminal in all but conviction, slicked back hair and the attitude to match, homeless in fact if not in reality, his _underage_ son, _his_ underage _son_ —but the hint of vulnerability in his eyes, so similar to a smoke-stained night years ago, and the way his son had been so gleefully, utterly, _happy_ as he came bounding out the door began to settle them into the tranquility of acceptance.

“We made dinner,” said Stiles, reluctantly releasing him from the hug to better study his face anxiously.

“Oh?” He replied, quirking an eyebrow. He’d seen the groceries Stiles had been dragging home lately, but somehow he doubted the Pillsbury pizza topped with pepperoni and bacon bits was intended for him.

“Spaghetti,” was the answer. “Whole grain spaghetti with Prego sauce, and salad from a bag.”

He looked up, eyes meeting Derek’s, and sighed. “Well, we best go eat it before it gets cold, then.”

-

“I met your mom when I was in high school, you know.” He said thoughtfully, gaze drifting almost against his will over a forkful of salad to the leather jacket and dark hair that graced his kitchen. His fingers weren’t itching for his gun, no matter what the man might think, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep him on his toes.

Stiles dropped his head to the table and, doing his best not to die of humiliation, silently counted to 100; but tucked away deep in his chest, a corner of his heart beat steadily with the warmth of joy and an emotion that he was finally ready to acknowledge.

**Author's Note:**

> Argh. So, I had some real difficulties with formatting and the transferring thereof with this, so if there are any problems, don't hesitate to let me know.  
> Edit: Just some quick notes. Kasia (AKA aevenien) suggested that I work on developing Derek's perspective. I attempted to do so...and somehow wound up writing an entire section from the Sheriff's POV. Because I have trouble getting inside Derek's head, apparently. ANYWAYS, that part--most of the end, actually--was a last minute addition and so is un-betaed. Any problems are likely entirely on me and there through no fault of Kasia.  
> Edit 2.0: So, I went back over this and realized that, somehow, I'd only managed to transfer one bit of italicization. It is now fixed, and hopefully makes more sense as a result.  
> Thanks for bearing with me!


End file.
